


Bathrobe

by allthebeautifulthings9828



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fic, Domestic, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Domestic Fluff, Fallen Castiel, Falling In Love, Fluffy Ending, Human Castiel, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-18 10:11:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthebeautifulthings9828/pseuds/allthebeautifulthings9828
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's bathrobe has been going periodically missing for weeks. He thinks Sam is the thief until one morning, he finds the new human Castiel wearing it. He questions Castiel, which leads to a stunning admission. Are they going to dance around this thing forever?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bathrobe

At first, Dean Winchester didn't notice his dark grey bathrobe turning up in different places than he left it. He mainly wore it from the bathroom to his bedroom and back again so Sam wouldn't have to see his naked ass in the hallway. But sometimes he just didn't feel like getting dressed if they had a day off between hunts. One of the little luxuries in his life was schlepping around the bunker in that bathrobe, drinking coffee, and watching telenovellas. Ricardo's wife was remarrying next week after the  _suicido_. Important stuff.

He rolled on his back and stretched in bed the morning after a particularly brutal wendigo hunt. He'd gotten slammed into half a dozen walls and thrown off a balcony before they ganked the damn thing. Stiffness slowed him down that morning, certainly not the young hunter who could take a beating and walk away without feeling a thing anymore.

Dean shuffled to the bathroom in his black boxer briefs for his morning piss, but he couldn't find his bathrobe there or in his bedroom either. What the hell? He wondered if senility could set in at 35. Hot, steamy air still lingered in the bathroom and he guessed Sam took a shower and used his stuff again. Damn it. They lived in a huge underground bunker with their own rooms far apart. It was time his little brother stopped stealing his shit.

"Sammy!" he bellowed, stalking down the hall and downstairs. "Sammy! Stop stealing my shit! Get your own!"

"Good morning, Dean."

The hunter's feet nearly skidded across the floor in protest of how suddenly he stopped. Castiel, former angel of the Lord, new addition to the human race, casually leaned against the kitchen doorway and sipped a cup of coffee. In Dean's dark grey bathrobe. Toned, athletic legs supported a man fresh out of the shower with wet, dark hair sticking out in a messy pattern. Even his scruff appeared to have been attended with an electric razor, not quite making him clean shaven, but certainly less like an angelic hobo. The bathrobe hung loosely over his shoulders. Was he always that broad? He'd sinched the belt tightly around his waist but hadn't folded the halves over each other completely, which exposed a deep V along the center of his chest.

"Dean?"

"What?" he croaked a little too quickly. And then he glanced down at himself, remembering he only wore black boxer briefs. "I, uh, didn't think you were up yet." Shit, this felt awkward.

Castiel swallowed another mouthful of coffee. "I was hungry. I forgot to eat again last night."

"Oh, okay." Awkward silence. Shit.

Except Castiel didn't seem awkward at all, standing there in Dean's bathrobe and drinking coffee like he didn't have a worry in the world. His blue eyes flickered over Dean and he faintly smiled against the rim of his cup. The hunter's eyebrows knitted together and 'don't objectify me' nearly tumbled out of his mouth. Stupidly, really. How did he know Castiel even understood how to objectify? Just because his brain taunted him with the question of whether he wore anything under the bathrobe...

"What's Sam up to?" he croaked again, his voice an octave higher and quickly covering up his own thoughts.

"He went to..." Retreating into the kitchen, his bare feet strolled lazily over the aging linoleum. "He left a note here on the refrigerator. We are apparently out of food and he went to the farmer's market. The note says Twinkies and beer don't count as food."

"The hell they don't," grumbled Dean.

"Would you like some coffee?"

"Sure." He cleared his throat before another bout of awkward silence stalked the kitchen. "You're the one stealing my robe then, Cas? I've been yelling at Sam for weeks about this."

Castiel poured a cup of coffee and slid it across the counter toward Dean, black, just the way he liked it. "Stealing is a strong word, Dean," he said. "That suggests I never return the robe, but I do. It's more accurate to say I borrow it."

"Okay." Sighing, he tried to be patient. "Then why are you 'borrowing' my stuff without asking?"

For quite a while, the former angel said nothing, but merely leaned against the counter drinking a new cup of coffee. It seemed his skin drained of a bit of color, but then reddened suddenly, as if he felt ashamed. He avoided Dean's eye. Yep, he definitely seemed ashamed of something and the hunter's mind spun all kinds of ideas.

"Cas..."

Castiel shrugged. "I did it once when I first came here and you left with Sam for a hunt. It was more difficult to bear being alone those two days than I expected and..."

A moment passed and Dean shifted a bit closer. "...And?"

"It smells like you. I didn't feel so alone. Occasionally, I still borrow it when I have the night terrors, as you call them."

It deeply shamed him, Dean realized, as both sorrow and solitude added a grey pallor to his face. He spun and spilled the remainder of his coffee in the sink. Something else crept around Castiel's words - something he didn't want to say directly - but they both knew this  _thing_ wasn't going away anytime soon. Dean felt immeasurably awkward walking around his underwear, and Castiel was stealing his clothes. It all  _meant something_ but hunters simply couldn't afford for things to  _mean something_ with another person. It always ended in tragedy and blood.  But Dean stood there in the kitchen looking at that man - he was a man now - and some piece of his wall crumbled.

"You look good in my stuff, Cas," he eventually said.

Castiel strode past him, inexplicable anger streaking his face. It didn't seem to be anger directed at Dean. No, more like shooting himself in the foot just to feel a different kind of pain for once.

"Stop." Dean grabbed his forearm and jerked him back. "Don't run away like this."

The former angel wearing the hunter's bathrobe didn't fight or pull away but he stared straight ahead, an unnatural stoic shadow fell over his eyes. Dean hated how it always happened that way. They constantly walked right up to the edge of the cliff and peered over the edge but neither had the balls to jump. Dean pinched a fold of the bathrobe's collar and traced his fingers down Castiel's chest.

"One of these days, we're not gonna be able to pretend anymore like this isn't happening," he said so low that he wasn't even sure he said it out loud at all.

Castiel's blue eyes shot directly into Dean's eyes. "Then you do..."

"Yeah," Dean filled it in for him, "I do."

Relief, he thought, shifted Castiel's posture. His shoulders relaxed in the bathrobe and he closed the gap between them. The concept of hugging still felt a bit awkward but his arms slipped around Dean's bare waist and his chin rested on his shoulder. Dean pulled him snugly against his chest, burying his face in his neck in slow acclimation to one another.

"Keep borrowing my stuff," he whispered. "It looks good on you."


End file.
